Just some crap.
I’ve sort of rediscovered the joy of the blog lately. For a while there I thought about dumping it altogether, but I realized I’d miss the forum to spew my musings and I would miss the “community” we’ve created here.
Not much of consequence to say today, really. Rumor has it my pal Stacy is working on a barn-burner of a post about an emotional subject, and frankly I hope she posts it soon ‘cuz I’m sick of logging onto her site at work and having that picture of the half-naked guy pop up.
FINANCIAL PLANNING.
If you’ll recall, months and months ago I wrote about the fact that my wife and I met with a financial counselor, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to commit to the follow-up appointments; namely a three-hour seminar and then a one-on-one wrap-up with the counselor himself.
Well, last night we succumbed to the latter. He graciously allowed us to bypass the seminar, and the reason for this was made clear (albeit between-the-lines) during our meeting: it’s because my wife and I are broke. We have nothing to offer this guy’s company, and they have nothing to offer us. He did everything shy of saying “Admin Worm, you stand to enjoy a lucrative retirement…that is, if you can manage to work ‘til you’re 107 and die at 110.” He seemed genuinely uncomfortable at times, tugging his collar and laughing nervously. There were times I had to place my hand reassuringly on his shoulder and say “There there, son. I know you did your best. We know we’re fucked.”
As a result, I’m a trifle depressed today. Depressed because it’s all well and good to philosophize about life’s greater issues; it’s fun (to me) to secretly hope I live to see the end of all things; but it’s quite another to realize that maybe—just maybe—I might live a normal lifespan, and unless I win the Powerball drawing I may just be living in a cardboard box when I turn 65.
If I only had the past 20 years to try again, I would…well, truth be told I’d probably fuck it all up again. All I can do is keep going to school and keep hoping that I discover what I want to do with my life and can then manage to start socking away money like there’s no tomorrow, which is ironic because I would then be planning for the likelihood that there would be a tomorrow.
DEPRESSION.
One thing our financial guy impressed upon us was the importance of life insurance. I have none, and it’s because of my history of depression. I applied for life insurance a couple years ago, and my agent told me “You’re screwed.” I’m too high-risk. Not only that, but I’m very likely blacklisted by every insurance company on the planet.
Depression is a Catch-22. If I had just clammed up, obtained a million dollars worth of life insurance, then stuck a shotgun in my mouth, all would be peachy. However, because I have had the audacity to actually—shudder—seek treatment for my condition, I am being penalized. And to add insult to injury, there seems to be no criteria for deeming a person healthy enough to obtain life insurance. It’s not like a smoker, who one year after becoming tobacco-free can get the non-tobacco rate for life insurance. No, it seems that for the remainder of my life I’ll be stuck with the stigma of being a depressed person. I could be a healthy, happy 90-year old, and the insurance companies in their infinite wisdom would say “Sorry, but when you were 30 you told your family doctor you were feeling glum.”
Yes, I know what you’re saying: the whole “personal responsibility” thing has come back to bite me in my ass. To which I would reply that you’re correct, to an extent. However, by seeking treatment I was endeavoring to do just that: take personal responsibility. And by doing the right thing, it is my wife who will ultimately suffer.
And on that positive note, let’s hope Stacy gets her uplifting blog posted soon.
Not much of consequence to say today, really. Rumor has it my pal Stacy is working on a barn-burner of a post about an emotional subject, and frankly I hope she posts it soon ‘cuz I’m sick of logging onto her site at work and having that picture of the half-naked guy pop up.
FINANCIAL PLANNING.If you’ll recall, months and months ago I wrote about the fact that my wife and I met with a financial counselor, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to commit to the follow-up appointments; namely a three-hour seminar and then a one-on-one wrap-up with the counselor himself.
Well, last night we succumbed to the latter. He graciously allowed us to bypass the seminar, and the reason for this was made clear (albeit between-the-lines) during our meeting: it’s because my wife and I are broke. We have nothing to offer this guy’s company, and they have nothing to offer us. He did everything shy of saying “Admin Worm, you stand to enjoy a lucrative retirement…that is, if you can manage to work ‘til you’re 107 and die at 110.” He seemed genuinely uncomfortable at times, tugging his collar and laughing nervously. There were times I had to place my hand reassuringly on his shoulder and say “There there, son. I know you did your best. We know we’re fucked.”
As a result, I’m a trifle depressed today. Depressed because it’s all well and good to philosophize about life’s greater issues; it’s fun (to me) to secretly hope I live to see the end of all things; but it’s quite another to realize that maybe—just maybe—I might live a normal lifespan, and unless I win the Powerball drawing I may just be living in a cardboard box when I turn 65.
If I only had the past 20 years to try again, I would…well, truth be told I’d probably fuck it all up again. All I can do is keep going to school and keep hoping that I discover what I want to do with my life and can then manage to start socking away money like there’s no tomorrow, which is ironic because I would then be planning for the likelihood that there would be a tomorrow.
DEPRESSION.
One thing our financial guy impressed upon us was the importance of life insurance. I have none, and it’s because of my history of depression. I applied for life insurance a couple years ago, and my agent told me “You’re screwed.” I’m too high-risk. Not only that, but I’m very likely blacklisted by every insurance company on the planet.
Depression is a Catch-22. If I had just clammed up, obtained a million dollars worth of life insurance, then stuck a shotgun in my mouth, all would be peachy. However, because I have had the audacity to actually—shudder—seek treatment for my condition, I am being penalized. And to add insult to injury, there seems to be no criteria for deeming a person healthy enough to obtain life insurance. It’s not like a smoker, who one year after becoming tobacco-free can get the non-tobacco rate for life insurance. No, it seems that for the remainder of my life I’ll be stuck with the stigma of being a depressed person. I could be a healthy, happy 90-year old, and the insurance companies in their infinite wisdom would say “Sorry, but when you were 30 you told your family doctor you were feeling glum.”
Yes, I know what you’re saying: the whole “personal responsibility” thing has come back to bite me in my ass. To which I would reply that you’re correct, to an extent. However, by seeking treatment I was endeavoring to do just that: take personal responsibility. And by doing the right thing, it is my wife who will ultimately suffer.
And on that positive note, let’s hope Stacy gets her uplifting blog posted soon.
posted by Admin Worm at 8:41 AM
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